His
by perrilloux.bf68
Summary: A heart can be many things. A symbol. A metaphor. Emotions. A dreamscape. It's the place where He works the most. In the secret, in the quiet places where no one knows or can truly ever touch. This is my reality and this is my story told from a place that no one has ever seen. Until now. Updates will be sporadic. [7up]
1. Chapter 1

**His**

**A Place**

* * *

At first, it was given empty and simple. A hole in the ground. A cave. A dungeon that was round and spare except for the stone slab floor, the cave like rooms that branched off of the interior dwelling and a door that lead to a staircase that lead to a trap door to the underside of a bed to a bedroom she rarely ever uses. It was a place, a gift given under one condition.

"It's just for you and no one else. No one else may enter without your permission."

"You may enter." Her answer was instant, automatic. And he just smiled and nodded.

"Then I take it back," he said reaching to hold her hand. It wasn't even half the size of his own. "The only condition is this. No one else may enter without your permission and I will visit often."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

There's a point in your life when you come to accept that fairies aren't real, your heroes are myths, your hopes are nothing but dreams, your father will never come home, you'll never marry and that your slight unhealthy obsession with all things cats is just a plausible prelude to your eventual life as a cat lady (with either a haunted dilapidated house, or a grocery cart full of everything but the kitchen sink and food. Just Saying. It's inevitable.) One day, and it is coming or has already come, when you will realize that your life is as empty as forever and just as long, as grey as the pews in your church as the sand that slithers grain by grain through the hourglass that slowly but surely counts down towards your dying breath—your entrance into heaven or hell, depending on your mood and current worldly outlook. Some days, it seems like the end will be tomorrow, others a lifetime away. On this day, life seems like an eternity of uncertain nothingness. This is what it's like to lose hope.

This is where He found me and from what I am continually saved. There are three constants in my life: my hopelessness, my heart, and Him.

He is mine and I am His.

This is my beginning.

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**~ Calla: Updates will be sporadic and possibly nonsensical. I'll try to keep it readable regardless.**


	2. Chapter 2

**His**

**A Place, part two**

* * *

Once upon a time…

It didn't stay that way, the cave with the over glaring lights, the dungeon walls, the open circular rooms that were nothing but sculpted carved dens filled with frameless beds and empty space. It was practically a tomb. For a time, she forgot it existed, like the castle they lived in, the bedroom lost somewhere within it. Actually, she never really knew where _that_ was exactly. Except for the fact that she last left it near the throne room, the precise location of the bedroom wasn't something she ever sat down to document. But that's neither here or there.

Once upon a time…

Things happened, events that she could scarcely remember: the telling of stories, of lions and wizards and mice and men and beasts and beauties and berserks and warlocks and—no. Those are wizards. Are they wizards? With each event, the room changed.

A pool was added. It could at one time turn people into gold. Whether if it could still do that remains to be seen. Regardless, she knew—knows—knew for a fact that the water was distinctly dangerous. In the words of Aragorn son of Arathorn, it was always the best probable action to not "disturb the water." It settled in the back of the main room, its edge a clear circle of dark liquid blocking off the furthest stone wall. The glaring lights had vanished. They'd dimmed so much that she couldn't even see the water let alone the wall. All she could see was just the rippled peaks of the tide, each wrinkle reflecting the soft bleak glow of the crystal illuminating the wall's murky center. It was a star in the darkness, red at times, blue in others. Green maybe white, it was something left over from a Harry Potter film. That's the hypothesis. Again, she wasn't sure. The beginning is always hazy.

The adjoining rooms had also changed.

Once upon a time…

The main room was no longer the main room. There was one door off to the side that led through a hall, through a dark corridor to a comfortable den which was called the Library. It was also circular, its stone walls chiseled smooth and round though you couldn't see them. This room was also dark, save for the orange glow of the fireplace. The wall that divided this room from the hall with the pool was lined in books, in bookcases that curved inward. They were split in the center by an elegant simple fireplace overflowing with a flame that was both warm and eternal. The light never dimmed. Even when it was replaced years later, that light never left. Soft as it was, it only lit half of the room. It never climbed up the walls to the high ceilings or the opposite wall where the exit was. It did, however, if you looked close enough, revealed the outline to another door, a secret door resting just inside the left column frame of that grand simple hearth, the predecessor of something brighter, grander and much more sacred.

The secret passage weaved through the wall a corridor to the left and a corridor to the right. Mirrored twins of each other, both found stairs that climbed up towards two trap doors, again one to the left and one to the right. One side led to a hiding spot, the comfortable lap of one large cherub-sphinx statue carved out of the wall of the Library. Thus, there were two statues in total, one on either side of the fireplace. Left. Right. Left. Their feet rested just above the tall wide bookcases. From there, she could look down and see everything, and no one below could ever see her. Well, no one but one. _He _always knew where she was. But that's to be expected.

The other side led to a hallway that led to a bedroom (on the right) also rarely used and mimicked pixel by pixel the red bedroom from a certain computer game. But she'd never tell you that, not out loud anyway, not even to tell you that the game's name was Myst. Never Ever. Throw away the key.

Once upon a time…

There was a door on the left of that hallway. There was a plain door, a wooden door, and once opened it would immediately reveal blue-green leaves and dark white light. If you stepped out, your feet would find a balcony, a stone high-rise that led to stairs which curved down a tower tall enough to house the one thing hidden within it: a tree, soft, tall and expressly fruitless. At one time, an owl lived in it. Grass always grew around its base. It was tainted a vivid green due to the lack of light seeping through a hole in the ceiling, tinted white, tinted a soft damp blue. Its roots also hid a hiding spot, a dark hole, a deep hole. Yet, even there He could find her. _He _could always find her, though you wouldn't easily notice.

At the ground floor, another door existed, linking back to the Library. It was the mirror opposite of the door leading to the pool and crystal.

Once upon a time…

This was her life, these four rooms. She lived here. She'd die here and it was here where their lives started.

* * *

**Run Sheep Run**

Once upon a time, there was a shepherd and a pasture and a flock and a sheep, a lamb which was His and His alone.

Once upon a time, she looked out through the fence of her little home in the light, in the son[Sun], and viewed the darkness outside. She saw eyes, fangs and teeth.

Most sheep would have cowered, most would have been fearful of the dark fur that seemed to glisten in the moon lit night on that other side, at the muscular body and the murderous intent, the hunger embedded in its gleaming cyan streaked eyes. But the sheep, knowing the danger, felt neither fear nor alarm. Well, a little alarm, not that she would admit this really. Never Ever. Throw away the key. The sheep, knowing the consequence, felt neither fear or alarm but desire and admiration.

"What a creature," she said. "So strong. So alive. So…"

The wolf grinned and left stalking away knowing that the sheep watched its every move, staring as he disappeared into the darkness, disappeared almost completely. She liked that.

Only for a moment did she turn back looking around. No one was looking. Cross her fingers. No one saw her, she thought, climb under that easily escapable fence and follow. Never Ever. No one saw her leave nor noticed she was missing. No one but one. He saw her leave. He always knew.

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**Sorry for the mistakes, I just can't keep correcting them. Thank you for your indulgence. Calla**


	3. Chapter 3

**His**

**Split**

* * *

There was a secret place hidden outside the walls of the castle, the kingdom in which only He and she lived.

When she was little, she used to dream, daydream, about a princess who had once gotten in trouble with her father and decided to runaway. And every time, in every dream, every story, every comic, book, movie, play, verse and nightmare, the father upon finding her room empty would always run after her, his daughter, save her, bring her home safe and loved though scarred and broken. Perhaps, it was foreshadowing what reality would bring. Perhaps, it twisted fate melding it to suit the dreams playing and replaying in her mind, like the repetitious song of that notorious nightingale. Perhaps, it was true what they say about dreams coming true. Be careful what you wish for, dream for, think for, covet secretly…

One day, one of those days when the sun would shine, the earth would glow and glimmer like its lifeblood, the rivers, the streams, the oceans and lakes, bubbling over and singing as the winter passed and the spring sprouted. It was days like this when he would find her and usher her down to the stables.

The horses were His. The donkeys were His. The sheep are His handy work too [blink, blink]. The oxen, the geese, the cows, they were all His. However, on days like this, there was only one creature they would ride, a sturdy mare white and docile. She was one of two of His pure white horses. He was fond of having two of everything, like a certain person and his arc—excuse me His arc. The two by two plan was His, not Noah's.

The first time He brought her down there, she hadn't gravitated to the mare but to the stallion, His other white beast. Tall. Firm. Strong and dangerous—

"Get away from there! No! Not him!" His voice had been harsher than she had witnessed from Him before. Not mean, though she had blinked, just firm with warning enough to cause her to step hastily away and look back with wide alarmed eyes.

Gently, He came up from behind and wrapped an arm around her in order to lift her upon His strong and loving shoulders. She loved when He did that.

"Why?" she asked slightly winded, partially apprehensive from His prior warning. She didn't like it when He was angry.

He wiped His nose briskly and stepped away. The stallion snorted a cold warning at Him at which He narrowed his eyes and shook His head. "That horse was created for one purpose and one purpose only, and that is not to accompany us on today's adventure. Our adventure," He paused before a stable just a few doors and a corner-turn down, "is being serviced by her."

She took one look at the creature and pouted. "She looks boring. Not unlike—"

He cleared His throat and she quieted understandably. She really didn't like it when He was angry, though she was known at times to push, prod and provoke Him to His detriment and hers.

She was promptly plopped upon the seat of the saddle and in no time He clambered up behind her wrapping her carefully between arms and love. He gathered the brown well oiled leather reigns and gave them a brisk snap. The mare took off clattering out of the castle, through its tattered fields and off into the forest lit with light and life to a meadow that was as wild as the sun and as bright as the wind—no, scratch that, reverse it.

Flowers, bees, streams, grass, Him, her and peace. As the dew pants. As the deer cries. This is where she ran that night, to the meadow with no path to follow, no path to leave along the stream feeding into the lake erupting from the field's violet center. During the day, it was peaceful but on this night it was anything but.

Like in her dream, she had done something and like in her dream, she ran with Him following, steps, leaps, miles behind her pacing steady, sure and patient. He wasn't some unaware king, some slumbering father destined to wake and find a bed torn, clothes scattered or a window open or shattered or broken. He was more than that. He was fully aware and never slept. He knew where she was going and why. He always knew and that scared her more than anything. She didn't like it when He was angry.

She also didn't like herself drenched in the blood-red clothes that guilt and shame, her actions, had left her in. She had stopped at the lake, peered down into their depths commanding ice to form and rise. A dream. A nightmare. Anything could happen in this world, the shelter he had created for her. He, who watched as the slab straightened forming a mirror reflecting her dark tan skin, long black hair, and blood stained clothing. It was white in her reflection. Would it ever be white again?

The reflection blinked, tilted her head and raised up hands making as if to exit. And then, to her surprise, it melted through the ice, through the luminous light creating flesh as soft as sun and hair as dark as night—wait, strike that, reverse… no-no, that was correct.

It stood before her. She stared at it. He watched them both arms folding, stare hardening in growing anger. "Don't," He said.

"I hate you," the red twin spoke. "I hate everything about you." She attacked it, reached to hit, slap, kick, hurt, spit at the white twin who lay broken beneath her feet, in the earth, in the meadow no longer peaceful, unfit for deer or songs. She sneered then walked away disappearing into the forest, leaving green-blue eyes to follow her path silently.

He frowned heavily and walked to the huddled mess lying before a violet drenched mirror and a lake now tainted red with pooling blood. Her blood. He looked down stopping beside her. He knelt so he could weave nail scarred hands through blood drenched hair, tears and a trembling chin that only dipped and ducked away the closer He neared. At this, His frown deepened. "Don't." He bent and picked her up careful of her injuries. "Let me take care of you."

She looked up at Him, her skin white like her name. White shook her head. "She didn't mean to."

At the mention of her, His jaw tightened, tightened enough that even she could see it, even though her pain was great and hard to swallow. Instantly, her tears began to fall. With abandonment, they dripped to stain his tunic. "Don't please. Don't be mad. She didn't mean it."

"She didn't," He said flatly.

The girl hesitated, looked up at him trembling. "You don't like her."

He paused on their way home. He stared down at her. Blue-green eyes, haunting eyes, they were hard. "She is you. I love her like I love you. However, what she has done is serious and worthy of ire. Don't you think?"

When she didn't answer, he began to walk again. Swaying in his arms, she considered his words. So engrossed was she, she barely caught his suggestion. "She needs a name. Will you name her?"

She paused and thought before biting her lip. "I don't know…"

* * *

** Samuel: The answer is yes, kind of. Thank you for your reviews, guys. - Calla**


	4. Chapter 4

**His**

**A Promise**

* * *

"As I placed my hand upon your brow, I could feel the coldness of your skin seep into my own. How is it that your appearance so soft and warm can harbor such deception? How could a carefree expression relaxed in calm sleep turn into one of anger and hatred? They're masks, I know, coverings hiding something deeper, darker than you wish for another to see but I can see your struggle, though I know you doubt this.

I've seen the sorrow dull the sparkle from your eye. I've witnessed the weight of your secrets chip through the front you so desperately try to maintain. Yes, every battle you've waged my eyes have captured a glimpse. Nothing has escaped from my searching gaze. Yet, even still, even aware of this as you are, you run from me as though you can hide the damage that this war is producing. And so I ask myself, how can an angel be torn away from the light? How can she be thrown upon the path to darkness and how is it, little one, that an angel can turn into a demon? I wish I didn't know…

No, I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself. I will not stand idle while you waste away into your emotions. I refuse. Of this I am persuaded. Since the day that I found you, I've watched over you even as you laid unconscious before me. From the day that I carried your light, frail body into my home, I've nurtured you though your weak protests tore at my heart. And from the first time that my eyes drank from the vast emptiness of your own, I've loved you, even as I knew the feeling might never be returned. That was the day that you captured my heart and I refuse to watch the creature I have cherished these long endless years deteriorate before me. This is my vow, little one. This is my promise. I will save you. I will protect you. Just give me a glimpse into your heart so I can do so. Allow me to share in your torment, in your world of pain and secrets. Please, let me in."

Thus saith the LORD.

It would be years before the other was given a name, a title ripped from the pages of a book. Ti'ana. It meant storyteller. White, the forgotten beaten mistress of that world had named her thus because of the other's love for stories, her love for creating legends manipulating time, love and history. Thus her name was fitting in this way, but it was also fitting in another.

There are implications tied to the profession of storyteller, implications that have fallen to the wayside as of late, now that a hundred page manuscript has the potential to reach billions instead of a meager dozen, to be sold and told and retold through more than just pen and ink. We have forgotten that in the beginning a storyteller was nothing short of a beggar wandering penniless from town to town searching out food in exchange for words and a rhyme. That was what she was, not a beggar per say, but a wanderer, lost and alone.

In actuality, she wasn't even that.

She was a runner. She ran from everything. Mentally, emotionally, metaphorically, she ran from her home, from her responsibilities, her expectations but mostly from Him. And He? He let her go though at times He would follow.

There is a memory from this time, a time from this era that she could recall clearly. It was one of two still living in her meandering recollection. Everything else was a blur, but that's neither here or there.

The first vision took place on the Fence. It was called the Fence because of the wall, a hedge of dirt, grass and rock that bordered His kingdom like a picket fence a house ambling mile after mile in a wide crumpled circle. She used to run on top of it in those days, those days when she fell to the other side, left the light for the darkness and refused to return. At that time, it was the furthest point she had courage enough to flee.

That day the other gate was visible, the black gate leading to the country, the world she both feared and admired. Just like it, on that day, the light and His kingdom to her right was just as clear. Upon the Fence, she traced the line of light and shadow that separated the two worlds. Her eyes never left its clear edge. Her feet followed its lead. She'd been intent, so focused upon it that even today she couldn't necessarily recall what pushed her to look back, to view her path along that wandering hillside.

What she should have seen shouldn't have been a big deal but it was. It should have been a near mirrored replica of the world that forever stretched out before her, that replayed over and over as she circled His kingdom once, twice, a dozen times but it wasn't, not quite. It made her pause, nearly trip over her feet.

He was there walking, strolling, following behind her carefully watching her steps as they thudded aimlessly before Him. She stared. He stared. She paused. He paused, then turned to regard the dark world to His left, the black gate standing eerily close it seemed. His light reflected with the movement giving her a glimpse, a glint of something she didn't think she'd ever see. A tear.

He was crying and she didn't know why.

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**Let's try this again - Calla**


	5. Chapter 5

**His**

**A Promise, Part Two**

Love is patient.  
Love is kind.  
Love is...  
It's...

People have mantras, beliefs, ideas and principles that they live by, eat by, act, die and hate by. They love by them too. For her, these norms were conclusions, rules and observations about how the world worked and how it saw her, what she was to it. Those conclusions were rarely self-edifying or positive. How could they be when she was constantly reminded of what she wasn't or what she couldn't be or failed to be. The truth can be used as a weapon just as easily as lies.

The power of a well placed verbal assault is not hindered by whether or not truth is found in its composition. In fact, the presence truth makes the sting that much more damaging. For who can argue against it?

She couldn't.

So, she didn't.

White believed them, those who lived on the outside of her heart, outside of their world. The voices that filtered in from reality, their words, their judgments, their treatment defined her world, manipulated her actions and intensified her perceived consequences of them. It wasn't long before she'd applied those definitions, conclusions and judgments to Him. After all, He was God. He knew everything. He saw everything. Her sins were ever before Him, written in a book for Him to scrutinize later, like Santa Clause did his naughty list. Their judgments should also be His because, after all, it was the truth. Correct?

Love is honest.  
Love is truthful.  
Love is also unpredictable.

He didn't react like they did.

For each mantra, He answered with His own and she couldn't understand it.

She'd ask, "Why do you love me?"

That was the first question. Repeated over and over again until she was proverbially blue, each time He would answer it with, "Because..."

"Because why?"

"Just because... Because I want to."

"That doesn't make sense."

It didn't make sense.

She thought back to when the Son was given the choice of whether the prostitute thrown at His feet should be stoned or not. The Son had answered, "Let anyone without sin cast the first stone." Everyone left after that dropping their murder weapons on the street where they found them, turning them back into what they were originally, a creation with the ability to sing praises when man refused to offer up the glory of which his King was worthy. It's amazing what the influence of man can do, turn, taint and rot.

Everyone left but one and He had every right to pick up a stone and cast it, the perfect sinless lamb that He was. But He didn't. He just admonished the woman and let her go.

She didn't understand that either.

She used to throw stones at His feet, take them and shove them into His hands with a glare saying, "Go ahead. It's what I deserve. Hate me!"

"No." He dropped them. Scold? Yes. Teach? Definitely. Punish? Creatively, but He never picked up a stone. It was frustrating. He didn't—

"You don't understand shouldn't."

"Pardon?" He asked.

"You don't understand the word, shouldn't!" she snapped.

He just crossed His arms and sat back on His throne like He owned the place (which He did, but that's beside the point). She glared.

"You! The wages of sin is death!"

"Correct," He nodded.

"Sinning makes me your enemy."

"Correct."

"Then, you should hate me. I'm going to hell—"

"But I took that punishment when my Son died."

"But I still did the deed."

"His blood covers it. I don't remember it."

"But I do," she said heatedly. "I still did the deed. I still sin every day. I—you shouldn't love me. You don't understand the word, shouldn't."

"And you don't understand forgiveness," He countered. "Or love."

"I don't believe in love." She whispered the confession tersely. Her voice was barely audible. "It's not real. You can't love me."

He never answered after that. Not really. But He watched her, His thoughts, His emotions swimming in eyes that pondered her silently.

She knew the look. He was offended some, scheming some, taking time out to recollect and calm whatever raging emotion that was bubbling under the service. She never knew the reasons why though or what His next reaction would be… well, not entirely. That look normally meant two things: a scolding was coming or some acknowledgment of a hiccup in their relationship, an act of compassion that would bring her to tears and ultimately pull them closer. This time it was a mixture of both.

The look made her nervous. So much so, that soon she was marching towards the front door with Him following casually. The look in His eyes pierced into the back of her neck making her hands tremble as she jerked the knob and swung the door open.

"You don't have to stay. Y-you should leave."

The look darkened. His hand dropped into a fist. "Why?" He asked.

"Because you don't have to. Y-you probably stay out of obligation or for the sake of your integrity. But really, I know what I am and what I've done. It's ever before me and you don't have to stay." She looked away holding the door. "I'm a waste of your time anyway. You should—"

The door slammed and in an instant she found herself with her back against the wall staring up at dark stone green eyes that were as serious as they were hard. His shaven jaw tightened as He stooped closer. Like His hands, which framed her head as they leaned against the wall, He purposely loomed into her personal space so that their breaths mingled, so that her gaze was locked on His.

This is how He got her attention. It was the only way He could get it without her taking off, running in light of His anger and her fear. He leaned in closer and she swallowed.

"Are you done?" He asked.

She turned to look away blinking back tears. He didn't let her.

"Look at me!" His voice was firm, His gaze was unyielding as He asked again. "Are you ready to listen? Are you done?

When she didn't answer, He continued on as if she had. "I am not going anywhere. I have chosen to stay and I will not change my mind. Yes, part of it is because I choose to honor my word, but it is also because I love you. Genuinely. Whether you believe it or not.

"I don't lie and I don't break my promises.

"I chose to love you. I did so in the beginning before I made the world just as I did so when I chose to knit you in your mother's womb. It was a cold and sober choice, a conscious decision made with the knowledge that it would result in the equally sober choice to die so that I may forgive you and keep you by my side, regardless of your deeds.

"I choose to love you. Following me was your decision and I will honor it regardless."

The girl, now trembling, crying softly before Him, shook her head and lifted up open dirty palms in order to push against His chest. "You don't. You can't—" she whimpered. "I don't—"

He just took a step closer lowering stubborn lips to her ear, speaking fiercely His next words into the delicate shell that He carved personally. He remembered that moment clearly. "Keep pushing me away," He growled. "I dare you, because each time I will push right back. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

He kissed her cheek then pulled back reaching to lift her chin until He could meet her eyes. "Struggle with me. I am strong enough to deal with your insecurities as I am strong enough to heal them. This too I have chosen to do. Do not be afraid." He wiped away her tears before straightening with a sigh. His shoulders sank as He dropped His hand. "Regretfully, this is not a short journey.

Shaking His head, He turned and stalked back down the hallway leaving her trembling in the corner between the door and the wall. She sank to the floor listening as His words faded back into the hidden rooms of her heart. "I will call you Israel. Like the one who bore the name before you, you struggle with both God and men. And like that one, you will prevail as long as you stay by my side. This is my promise."

It was then that she understood.

Love was strong.  
It was constant, as stubborn as no tomorrow and as firm and unmoving as life itself.  
It also stayed loyal.  
It didn't keep a record of wrongs, but rejoiced in the truth; a truth that lovingly corrects and works to heal, to build up, to hold together and sanctify.  
His definition of love wasn't hers.  
It was…

Real.

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**Do me a favor. If you disagree with something, just pray for me that God will make what is right clear. I'm struggling in my faith right now. Flames will not help me overcome it. It makes it worse. - Calla**


	6. Chapter 6

**His**

Teetering

* * *

Teetering, swaying, looking over the edge…

There's this story about how Peter and the gang once saw a ghost walking on the water, who really happened to be the Son. The story goes that Peter, after discovering who it really was, asked the Son to invite the disciple to come out to Him. And the Son did. And Peter went. He climbed, probably rather clumsily, over the edge of that rickety old boat to land feet first on top of the soft, weightless, rather unsteady surface of the Sea of Galilee. For a moment, he didn't see that, the water, the path, the "ought" churning dangerously beneath his feet due to the late night storm around them. No, all he saw was Him, the Son standing, waiting with probably an arm stretched out in some kind of beckoning gesture. Like how Riku stands during that pivotal scene in the first Kingdom Hearts game, sure, confident, eager maybe… maybe not…. with spiky long hair blowing against an angry black and blue sky, the color of dusk and sheer moonlight, the color of his eyes, one green, one blue. Maybe He smiled, the Son. I don't know, but whatever the gesture, whatever the image that Peter met, it didn't ultimately hold his attention. Something else stole it.

At first maybe it was the wind, maybe the sky and then the peaks of the waves outlining the edge of the Son's glory, fading gradually into the foreground until eventually, inevitably, he looked down. Peter, his gaze descended and found "ought" and "should," the sea whose reality proclaimed that man cannot walk upon its surface, that a mere mortal, who cannot swim safely in such deep and remarkably choppy storm raged waters, should not even attempt to do such a thing. And do you know what happened? Peter sank—screaming. And do you know what happened? That burly slab of a fisherman was nearly consumed by it, the reality of "should" and "ought." And all it took was one fleeting glance away from his Lord.

Peter was lucky. Of what did he spy after turning his gaze away? A shoreline at its worst, a sea he probably knew like the back of his hand, a sky he'd lived under his whole life. Even when he sank, it is not too preposterous to think that he wasn't far from that rickety old boat. His friends might have saved him in time. Perhaps.

He didn't see what she saw teetering, swaying, peering over the edge of oblivion…

There's this story about a man named Lazarus and this rich man, who didn't have a name. The Son told this one. He wasn't in it though. Anyway, Lazarus was poor and the rich man was rich (duh) and the two died. And Lazarus went to heaven and the rich man when to hell. And the rich man looked up and saw Lazarus and asked for a drop of water to quench his thirst due to the fire. (Hope not ever to see Heaven. I have come to lead you to the other shore; into eternal darkness; into fire and into ice.) And Abraham said, because Abraham was there, that Lazarus couldn't perform this feat due to the chasm between the two worlds. He said that neither the inhabitants in hell nor those in heaven could bridge it.

That was a fascinating concept to the girl. White or Black? She didn't know. Israel or Ti'ana? You pick. You guess.

The chasm, the edge over which she teetered?

"I'm supposed to be down there," she thought staring at the fire, at the molten lava that quaked like a river of blood flowing doggedly into that world of pain and suffering. Did it really have nine rings like Dante imagined? She didn't know, though she pondered them swaying, walking its razor edge with the wind sweeping through her chocolate black hair, the flavor of ebony and sin, like her eyes, like the blood that stained her skin and clothing, the white dying on her clothes. Would it ever be white again? Should it be? She didn't know and so she teetered waiting, thinking, watching her fate bubble on below her.

She used to think, "I could do it for Him," then teeter embracing, tasting, experiencing the sensation of falling. Vertigo was an interesting feeling. Its dizzy fingers strangled her, took her breath away like the thought of going back. Would He even welcome her back? He didn't have to. In fact, He probably shouldn't. "Long time ago, He actually wouldn't—"

There's this story about a fish and a prophet and a town destined to be destroyed…

"Long time ago, He might not have," she corrected.

There's this story about a boy and a dad and an inheritance he squanders. Good news, he comes home and…

"A long time ago. Today, He'd—"

There's this story about 99 lost sheep and one who stayed—wait, no—the one who got lost and the 99 who stayed. He went after it, you know.

"Why would He do that?" She stopped walking. "What is one sheep in light of 99?" Her head tilted, her gaze flittered down and away from the light heating her back something fierce. "What is one fallen star, one grain of sand in light of the trillions that outline the sea shore? If it is swallowed by the sea to sink blind and alone to a bottom that can only be imagined and never reached, what is that in light of the trillions left to take its place? What is that?" She trailed off, her thoughts coming full circle going back to the mirror, the girl, the assault and her escape, to the eyes that watched her tear herself apart, the eyes that knew the reasons why. They had seen when she fell, the sin that now dripped incessantly from her hands like a wound that wouldn't heal. "It would be easy. I could do it for Him, make the judgment, pass the sentence, carry out the punishment. I should be down there. I ought—"

There is this story about a girl who loved to walk on the edge of a cliff.

She teetered.

And then she fell.

* * *

**.- Calla**


	7. Chapter 7

**His**

**Sight**

* * *

The world she sees is not the world you live in.

Darkness can only speak of darkness, even when the light endeavors to shine through it. How can the darkness describe light? It can try, but only through the language and the world out of which it first was born.

The world you live in is not the world she sees, although she walks through it with you side by side.

Similar, but different. Even in description, you can't perfectly exchange one's vision for another's. She can't live in you as you can't live in her. And although, she may attempt in her futile desire to bond with you to describe the world that she sees, touches, smells, tastes and experiences, even that is fruitless. Her language is coarse, the topics taboo, her voice muddled and inaudible. A gap exists between your world and hers, like the gap that exists between Ti'ana's world and Israel's, between light and darkness, heaven and hell, Him and her.

But He is different from you.

He sees everything. Just like He saw everything when IT happened, her crime, the split, her fall from grace. Yet, He did something that no one else had ever done. Ever! That no one else can do. No one else is strong enough, willing enough, cares enough. No one else is enough.

The world she sees, the world she lives in is the world He purposely spoke into, stepped through and chose to dwell continually bringing light. A light that is harsh and soft, blaring and gentle, piercing yet healing.

He can see in the dark.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a lamb that once saw a wolf in the darkness, that once followed a wolf into the darkness and thus ran away from her pasture, her life and shepherd.

He, the shepherd, had seen her leave. He saw when she snuck under that large easily escapable hole in the fence and watched as she vanished out of sight into the emptiness that surrounded their home. Yet, she hadn't noticed this. She didn't know that His gaze was ever fixed on her; saw, understood, and waited.

She also didn't think that He saw her when she finally returned remembering everything and nothing. Pacing out there in the dark, before that foolish fence wandering back and forth, left and right, she was attracted to the warmth, the sight, the feel of the light basking before her. She was also attracted to the scent.

Black nostrils quivered.

She could remember the fence, could barely remember the pasture or even the spots speckling the flocks gazing stupidly within it, but she could smell them.

Saliva pooled under her tongue.

Her gaze narrowed. Her lips pulled back into a sneer showing teeth that felt heavy and sharp as they hung below her slick gums. Her shoulders rolled. Her back arched. Her tail curled and snaked seductively as a blackened nose and one claw tipped paw silently slipped under that easily enterable hole in the fence—

Something moved!

She stopped, paused and waited suddenly spying Him.

A man walked through the pasture. As He did so, He casually patted puffy heads, stroked fluffy backs before moving to sit down against a tree. One lone tree had sprouted while she was away in the center of that rolling field. That she remembered. She pondered its significance. She pondered Him. She gawked, staring at Him. Him! Watching His flock with that crooked stick in His hand, He looked familiar though she couldn't tell you how.

Pointed ears dipped back in curiosity, wondering if He was a rival to that which she hungered, those fluffy white steaks on stilts. Dinner continued to graze stupidly unaware at His feet. She pulled back her lips, once again, revealing four dagger long canine teeth that seemed to curl with the wolfish growl that coiled from between them.

Another paw snuck under the fence, a snout, two ears and a—

Something hit her!

She jumped accidentally hitting her head on the fence's crossbeam before inching back just enough to see the wad of bread lying at her feet.

Her head tilted, an ear perked before she looked up seeing the man rise from His place and walk away clapping bread crumbs from His hands. He fished one into His pocket before pulling out another small piece of bread popping it casually into His mouth as He left.

She just stared…

…then remembering herself, glared—glared _FIERCELY_— turned tail and left. She may have imagined it, but she thought she heard a trail of laughter loiter behind in her wake.

"Hmm… I thought, you were hungry."

* * *

**Okay, another one down. Writer Observation: You write one story at a time and then you write five stories at a time. Writing is addictive. - Calla**


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